Shifting all the way back to August, I set out on several early morning runs to explore the city and get a feel for any area that might be worth a trip when the sun was actually out. Sure, many of my future haunts were in the direction of Dębniki or Błonia, but the Vistula River goes in the other direction as well. For one run, I wanted to see what was past Galeria Kazimierz, as it was clear the running and biking path went on for a bit, but to what end? 

Cruising along Bulwar Kurlandzki, I was immediately taken by the water, the trees, and, for that matter, the grass and fields. There were intermittent benches and places to pause for reflection. Without much effort, it felt like I was already in a quieter spot of the city. What I didn’t notice initially was that this new running route was a mixed-use area. The cycling and walking paths were separated, which was a plus, until they weren’t again, and that was a chore depending on who decided to stop and take random photos. Then again, it was a very scenic wooded route and even served as a cross-country trail whenever snow decided to blanket the area.

If I could complain for a bit about how many times the route was blocked by some idiot on their cell phone with their bike in the middle of the trail, we would be here for a while. Yes, that strikes a nerve, but not anywhere as much as the dog walkers who seemed oblivious to the fact that this is a shared trail. I’ll admit, I should have carried dog bones with me, but then again, why the locals walk their dogs on sixty-foot leashes remains one of Poland’s mysteries to me.

On not one, but multiple runs in this area, I made it a point to be out before five, simply because I wanted it all for myself. It appears I wasn’t the only one, because this old timer and his German Shepherd with a Hannibal Lector muzzle were always out at the same blasted time and on the same stretch closest to the river.

I tried to avoid them by leaving a few minutes earlier and later, but this section of bliss was too long, and the universe clearly wanted us to have frequent interactions or for me to give up and find a different loop. I’m not kidding. 

Our first introduction happened when it was still dark. I didn’t even know there was anyone on the trail, but as I came down off the incline into the meadow, I could make out a figure, most likely a walker. There was no doubt, but other than that, my angle was off, because I could barely make out a bench, and this figure was coming towards me. 

What do I know, but this guy’s massive dog was taking his jolly old time, likely just rolling around in the grass, waiting for the right moment to pounce and drive me into the waters of the Vistula. Things didn’t play out that way because, in this case, this Shepherd must have been dozing, and who knows what the old man was doing, but I startled them both. 

I jumped when the dog yelped. I might have even screamed like a little girl, and having Rin Tin Tin on such a long rope was ridiculous. The leash was for show because I knew if the dog bolted, he was either going to rip the old man’s arm off or take it with him. 

I watched the beast make his gesture towards me, clearly ready to taste an American teacher, but the guy made a simple nudge, and the attack was held off. Did he still growl at me? Did I come to a full stop and put out my hand, hoping for the best? Absolutely, but it was nerve-wracking, especially since I could barely make them out. 

We met up three to four more times because I decided I couldn’t handle the potential one time this animal broke loose. Muzzle or not, he was going to kick my ass, and I wasn’t ready for that to happen. What I wanted instead, after yet another showdown with more snarling, and the old man oblivious to “good morning,” was a means to continue my run along the river, but with less stress. I certainly didn’t want to run on the cyclist path and deal with those maniacs. 

That’s when I spotted what looked like a derelict barge on the other side of the river, and I wondered what route I needed to take in order to explore that area. As the sun rose in the east, I spotted a runner. Most certainly, I knew they could have done a huge loop, turned at the church in the woods, and then cut down. However, they managed to find that spot. I was committed to leaving this future crime scene behind and, funnily enough, traveling to a different one. 

I’m not sure if it was in late September or  October, but I know it was well before my travels took over what felt like every weekend, where I sought out this very spot. Of course, I went out in the middle of the day on a Sunday. Let me share: if the goal is to avoid people, don’t go out in Kraków on Sunday, especially not on a nice, sunny one. No one stays home. 

Granted, I get it. Once November shows up and the sun decides to disappear for three to four months, one has to take what they get. Then again, for every local who told me, “Just wait, the summer is beautiful here,” it seemed they had missed the fact that every season has its advantages. For an introvert, bring on the clouds and mixed precipitation, because unlike a sunny Sunday, families come up with alternatives to their long walks through the city and to any patch of grass along the river. 

Note, I’m not complaining here, but pointing out that this is the reality of life in Kraków. So on this magical Sunday when the temperatures shot up to a balmy seventy degrees, I wasn’t alone even when I hoped to be. Trust me, I went on a roundabout loop to get to this barge with a good exploration of the area after I spotted the familiar tour buggies and the troop of people gawking and waiting for their chance to get into Schindler’s Factory. Everyone is playing tourist on Sunday, and those who aren’t are probably young families out for a walk and some ice cream.

I remember cutting along Jana Dekerta, passing the athletic field where a kid’s soccer match was underway, and thinking to myself, "This explains the random ghosts on various buildings in town." Others are trying to scare people from visiting. 

Zabłocie wasn’t overwhelmed with families, but more like the university students who were now only waking up and trying to figure out what they were going to eat, before swarming the river’s edge. Still, it was bearable, and I was committed to getting to this barge. Next, I was walking past Park Stacja Wisła, which is actually quite lovely and an easy jump over to Bulwar Lotników Alianckich, where the creepy vibes begin.

In the early morning hours, this entire stretch is sketchy. It’s not from the dog walkers either, but just the energy between the fact that the paved area looks like a place you would find people taking their car to drop trash or a body. It’s one or the other. 

The running trail directly above feels off to me, too. I’m not talking about the unevenness of it all. Then again, if you want to run underneath a bridge and get that whole hitting your head vibe, or check out the latest graffiti, this might be your best chance to do just that in this area. Granted, it could also just be that I know in the opposite direction; this path got swallowed up by the construction. It could be better now with the railroad bridge finished, and yet, even on my last visit, as I walked this familiar route, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

I just can’t figure out whether the boat landing is actually in use or is a stand-in for some nefarious activity. Not even out for a run but walking this route, I have yet to see a boat tie up and pick up any passengers, even though there is a glut of watercraft farther down the river, in direct proximity to Wawel Castle. Why the dock and the mooring bollards?

A little farther down is where the real fun begins, honestly. One would need to be blind not to see the wanna be crack house on the river’s edge with the boats rusting away in its not-so-well-manicured yard.  I never took the time to learn whether this building, or what was left of it, was the headquarters for the old shipping fleet, or whatever owned and managed these barges and boats that had seen far better days. 

I wanted to check out the boat, the same one I spotted across the river, but first I had to deal with the fact that this boarded-up house and a half-ass fence kept me from accomplishing my goal. Hearing several voices and noticing through the fence that at least two people were exploring the same area, I cut through the grass and towards the river’s edge. It seemed the least suspect way of entering this fray, not to mention the closer I got to the house, I was one hundred percent sure some squatter or squatters on a drug binge were going to be racing out the one open window or door where the boards were half removed or cast aside entirely. 

Maybe someone was living there, or maybe people were using it as a drug den. I didn’t dare go inside, knowing that my luck would run out faster than me removing the muzzle from that Shepherd. No, it made more sense to trek through the rusted remains of a boat graveyard wearing nothing but a t-shirt and shorts, seeing if my Tetantus shot was up to date.  

The two other explorers were already on the old boat by the time I found a clear route into the back area. As I watched them climb around that corroded bucket and make their way to the wheel of the ship, I had no interest in joining them. I was already likely trespassing, just like these two men, and didn’t see how joining them and pretending we were buddies on a fishing trip would improve my situation. 

No, it was far easier to cut across the yard to the second boat, a far more decayed structure with some serious oxidation issues, but easier to climb onto and enjoy the view of the river. My plan seemed good until I spotted a man and a woman beating me to it. Thinking they would be quick and then return to their walk, I looked at the rear of the boat, already spraypainted to the nines, and kept meandering towards the water to make it appear that I wasn’t hoping to join in on the fun. 

In true, this can only happen to me, fashion, I looked out across the river, probably a hundred feet from that rust bucket, and marveled at the crowds of people lining the beach and the very route where the Shepherd roamed. Delighted that I was correct in my assessment, aside from the crackhouse, this seemed to be a far superior spot. Then again, the animal sounds coming from the boat told me that three was a crowd. The fact that I caught a glimpse of the blonde woman’s head disappearing beneath the rails made me wonder. Where her partner went, I didn’t stay long enough to figure out, but I did look back long enough to see what remained of that cabin shaking. Hopefully, they were both up to date on their shots.

As for my new spot that also served as a lover’s nest, I can share that it was the only time I saw or heard any of that funky stuff going on. When the winter weather came, all that remained was the sketchy house and the bones of each boat. Call it a sunny Sunday that caused the riffraff or bored locals to come out to play, but on future visits, the place was all mine. 
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Last time I checked, I believe the building has been razed, but the boats remain, a reminder of the city’s glorious past on one of Poland’s great rivers. Then again, for me, it was simply a more unusual, yet quieter, off-the-beaten-path location to enjoy, that didn’t entail me walking toward Wawel Castle, taking the balloon ride, or seeing which dogs were going to have their way with me across the river…..

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With my escape to England now complete, it only makes sense to share a proper description for my new Russell Stokes book. Let's be clear now, this description is simply a preview for the upcoming book that will be out in spring 2026.  I still have to send it off to my copy editor before I can schedule the actual release date.

The greater question is does this book interest you? Have you read the first book in the series, because if you haven't that's where we first meet Russell and see the events that immediately lead to Double Cross. I know I'm tooting my own horn, but it's honestly worth a look. As for the new book, I think it's the best one I've written out of the twenty one books composed over the years.

Let’s dive into the topic at hand and what’s got me thinking this morning about people, toxicity, and how it emanates everywhere. 

Here in Morocco, it’s a different beast altogether, simply because I don’t understand the language or culture enough to state whether it exists at all. I imagine it does, but still, I work at an international school, so I’m around kids, adults, and the entire educational dynamic that is a microcosm for the same issues we will be diving into. Not wanting to focus on work for a moment, because who cares about that, let’s talk about My Shenandoah Love instead.

I wrote this new adult romance in the summer of 2014. I remember it well because it was right after I grinded away at Going Home. The story was a perfect reprieve and counterbalance to Vincent and Christian, and their final story together as lead characters. For two weeks, I was consumed with Hannah’s story. 

Quick side note. I had just moved from my writing retreat for the summer, a studio apartment in Newmarket, New Hampshire, to an in-law loft studio in bucolic Gilmanton, New Hampshire. Surrounded by lakes, trees, and peace of mind, this was my stomping ground for the upcoming school year. I might have been there a day or two, waiting for my furniture to arrive, when I drove over to Johnson’s Dairy Bar in New Durham, where this beautiful woman with long, flowing, strawberry blonde hair captivated my attention. 

To this day, I have no clue how old she was, but I’m confident she was late teens or even twenty, a college student working her summer gig before returning to school in the fall. I remember getting my ice cream from this girl and then retreating to a picnic table to savor every lick and bite. By the time I was done with my dessert and driving home, Hannah Jones had been created.

Knowing that I needed some conflict and a proper love triangle to be set up, I brainstormed salacious ideas. Why not make one conflict where Hannah and her mother were interested in the same married man? I know, scandalous, right? It gets better, let’s throw a minister into the mix who can’t keep his Johnson under control (see that another joke) while he’s with one woman, but trying to make his best move on young Hannah. This is the perfect combination for disaster, and someone’s getting hurt in the end. 

Just thinking about the storyline makes me smile, as the character dynamics were interesting and, honestly, truthful to how people really are. That’s where we shift to the topic of the day. After the book was written, I had my editors go through the manuscript and release the story. For some reason, most likely to get new readers, I posted the first chapter on a writing community website challenge.
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Let me tell you this: most of my fellow writers are a-holes. Sorry, it’s true. At the very least, many are difficult people. Seriously, you get people of all walks on these sites. Many have an axe to grind and are simply on it to ruin another person’s day. They also believe that public forums are fair game to share uncensored opinions, right or wrong. We have those across the spectrum, with some who look for the positive, some who post irrational responses, and others who just want attention. I imagine there are other categories I’m leaving out, but you get the idea. 

Anyway, on this community site, I had the book up for three days, maybe less, when the comments started coming in. One reader (writer in disguise) wanted me to know that my northern Virginia location wasn’t authentic to the area. Newsflash, the story takes place in Front Royal, where I worked for five years. I’m pretty sure it’s authentic unless you live in a hole. Another reader said the entire exchange between mother and daughter was unrealistic. No mother would call their child names, let alone the words I used. While I would love to share those words with you, they weren’t nice ones, but having been around teens, young adults, and parents for years, let alone going through the life cycle myself, I can assure you that some families swear at each other.

Then the real heavy hitters came in, those readers who wanted me to know that my story wasn’t politically correct. OMG, the horror of it all. What was I doing? There were other, more telling ways to create this tale of new adult woe, without using obscene vocabulary and having characters put down one another. Didn’t you know that no one ever puts anyone down? No one swears in this world? And a sixteen-year-old having a crush on the early twenties deputy, that would never happen. 

I took the posting down, annoyed with the feedback. There was no need to play the game, nor was I going to have a chance to win the contest that was being offered, simply because the comment police was out in force and had missed the fact that I’m a product of the 1980s and won’t cave to a climate where people in books are fake and not real to the reality we live in. The next time you see college students speaking Old English or with a Victorian vernacular, do let me know where the performance is being held.

That being said, I gave up on putting my books or samples on writing community sites. If you are only going to read the first page and miss the entire purpose of the story, it’s all good from my perspective, but I don’t want or need to hear your opinion on the matter. For me, this shifted the narratives for book reviews, period. Amazon, at the time, was notorious for letting anyone post a review even if they clearly didn’t read the book, let alone purchase the work. I had one person for Running With Vince, write something like, “No one cares about you and your twin brother. This book sucks.” 

Then again, I had readers who were simply stupid. Did you read the book summary before opening it? If you knew it was in the first person, why did you keep reading? Because I couldn’t resist, look at these two reviews for Our Place by the Sea from Amazon. “A very short story. I dislike storytelling in the first person. I felt sad after finishing the story. I was bored reading it.” Or “I did not enjoy reading this, very self-absorbed, so I stopped reading. It is not about nature, as I had hoped.”
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I’m sharing this because everyone is honored for their opinion, simply by merit, but then again, it’s how we choose to respond to those opinions that matter. In writing, at this stage, ten plus years later, I don’t care either way. Whatever the story becomes is true to what I wanted readers to encounter. If you think it’s not realistic, fine, bless your heart. If you don’t like the story, for any reason, that’s fine too. I hear there are millions of other books, including AI ones, that will tickle your fancy. 

My issue continues to be with people who make comments not on my books, but just online, period, social media, YouTube, who I know are hiding behind their screens and wouldn’t do it in person. If they did it in person, we all know it would be a different encounter completely. That’s not intended to be a threat; I’m simply sharing that many people think the screen is a place for them to spew out whatever they want, regardless of the consequences. 

By spewing out hate, for many of them, it’s created such a toxic climate that many of us don’t want to doom scroll, check the news, or do anything online, because it carries over into the real world. I certainly don’t need to see or want in my feed political commentary that in my younger days was not posted for the entire community to see.

Words, at the end of the day, can be hurtful. It’s true, and we don’t know the reader’s perspective or their life story, so posting or commenting on something in a manner that creates divisiveness is irresponsible and creates a dark cloud over the entire matter. That’s the bottom line. 

At least with a book, if you don’t like it, you can put it down and read something that is more aligned with your values and thought patterns. We can’t necessarily do that when we are posting pictures or videos for friends and family, in an attempt to maintain connection (and sometimes for validation) only to get knocked down repeatedly by the trolls out there.

In school, I see this daily. Kids are simply trying to find their way in this world and discover who they are, but their community and their families impact how this path will go. You can’t model hateful, entitled things and not expect the next generation, the one you are raising, to do the same. 

Again, books are books. It’s a fictional release, just like a horror movie is going to create a thrill or a fright; it’s not reality, and can be swapped out. But when people belittle others in a public place, a restaurant, because their food was too cold or not enough salt was added, or the item they purchased was missing a bloody screw, it’s not the person’s fault who is dealing with the brunt of the attack. 

Even if it was their fault, what right do you have to take it out on them? Does it really matter in the scheme of your life whether a cup of coffee was hot enough? Are you so important that if someone who is consumed with their family struggle cuts you off on the highway, that it means you need to do the same? 

At the end of the day, on the web or in person, people are doing their best to manage. We can either make it easier on each other or be the reason another person’s day shifts to a more miserable one. As we shift to Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the New Year, do you need to be part of the problem or part of the solution? That’s what you have to ask yourself. Is it really worth posting that comment or can you let it be? 

Just some food for thought, from somebody who cares. 
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One more kilometer of driving and it was clear we had arrived at Poland’s happiest village or perhaps most gaudy. I kid a little, but when I spotted the fire department and saw the etched flower pattern underneath the windows and over the doors, it was a bit much for me. Granted, it could have been the contrast in colors, with the orange, yellow, blue, and red, but it seemed like they were forcing the tradition onto a building that didn’t need an arrangement. 

I’m sure Instagrammers would swoon over a fire department with hot red truck doors, a metal roof, and primarily a building in a greyish tone aside from the flowers and the red lining around the windows. I shrugged because I wanted to see the old village homes, one-room houses, or three-room dachas where you knew your grandparents were raised, and had to do everything without modern conveniences. That’s what I was looking for, not a bloody cement building that you tried to liven up with a stitch pattern.

Still, at the fire department, the flowers were everywhere. Who cares if I felt like I was in Kansas, among crops, fields, and only the occasional tree? Across the street, I saw what I believed was a church from the distinct wooden cross. The building itself was nothing to write home about, but all the windows had large bouquets, adorning the area, making you feel as though flowers were growing on the walls and through the cracks. I knew, though, from my limited research, the real show was the inside. 

I decided at this point to keep walking and spotted a brand new cement one-level house farther down the street that required my attention. The perfect cobblestone driveway gave away the newness of this house, and more importantly, a weird vibe. Although these same flower designs were prevalent, they felt forced. Did I say I was disappointed? I’m not trying to be negative, but I'm being honest about the fact that I just assumed the only houses with flowers were the old wooden ones. To me, it seemed like whoever built this structure was like, “Oh, we better put some flowers around the windows. And instead of painting the outside white, as they would have done in the past, we’ll have sections that are white with colorful flowers. Let’s make sure these overhead spaces can be removed if necessary.” 

Honestly, it felt weird. I was more excited to get away from this building and walk down the street to Dana and the car, wondering if she had spotted the traditional houses or if this was going to be some sham tour. As I was about to ask her if she had found out anything new or seen something better than what I had, the wheat crop became the real show. 

Let’s talk about something cool. I'm in my early forties, and I have never stepped foot in a field full of barley. This was amazing and beautiful. Had the rain not begun to fall, I likely would have considered taking a run or at least a walk through this illustrious area, to take on the role of Maximus in Gladiator when he did the same at the end of Gladiator. Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t Pienza, Italy, but the energy felt similar to me. Sure, the barley or wheat wasn’t that high either, but it was still in the same spirit.
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In our favour, I looked out and spotted a cemetery to our immediate left. A tractor-trailer sped by, and I had to call out for Dana to stop. She knows of my obsession with cemeteries and had to make a phone call, so the timing was ideal, as is often the case with many of my vlogging sessions. 

I will share that this wasn’t some quiet road either. We weren’t the only vehicle driving towards Zabno. There wasn’t even a proper pull-off. This was the countryside, and had it not been for the cemetery and the poorly maintained grass, Dana would have had to park off kilter on the edge of the road. I got out of the car and walked towards this beauty of a memorial. 

I had to laugh because, truly, corn was planted around every part of this thing. The fact that there was a path of sorts seemed weird, but then again, this cemetery in the middle of a cornfield and high-voltage power lines was equally amusing. 

The obelisk with the distinct cross towered over the crops, a full eleven meters high, and made this resting place for World War I soldiers even more fitting. A sign indicated that this was from late 1914 and early 1915, and soldiers from multiple sides were stationed in different sections of this relatively small outdoor shrine. A lone poppy grew proudly near the remains of some British soldiers. I spotted the German and Russian markers before climbing over the rock wall to take another look at the corn that enwrapped itself in this resting place for these soldiers. 

Unlike cemeteries I had traveled to and explored over the past year in Poland, this one was different. The energy alone was unique, and these graves made me reflect on war, and how these soldiers were put here out of convenience, much like many others in this part of the countryside. I wasn’t aware until after the fact, how many WWI graves are littered across these small towns, villages, and cities. I saw larger, more significant resting spots for these armies in places like Przemysl and Giżycko, but here was fitting for men at war who traveled to a foreign land, and this was what they had time for. 

It wasn’t glorious, nor did these men get much recognition for their efforts, and yet this proved they weren’t forgotten either. 

Truly, as I walked back to the road and spotted another plot across the street, nestled between a grove of trees with a cornfield as its perimeter, this felt fitting and peaceful. The grave marker told me everything I needed to know, with something like two hundred and ten Russian soldiers placed in a mass grave. This walk was a longer one, set farther back off the road, and yet more inviting. 

Four crosses took my breath away, and yet I focused on the fact that we had two small cemeteries with all this fertile land around them. I used the analogy on camera about how, even in death, there was a sense of renewal and rebirth that tied everything together. As I circled the wall, with only one entrance, I spotted more information about the five mass graves and three individual ones. 

Indeed, learning more about this place was informative, but the crosses over the mass grave were not what I expected. They spoke to me at some level. The trees surrounding the wall seemed like the rear guard, standing watch over these brave men who lost their lives. More than one hundred years after the fact, I could get a sense of the toil, the struggle, and perhaps even, as a veteran, I could relate to this loss of innocence and what these soldiers experienced, and those who served with them. 

The place was surreal and not an expected layover or wayward point. And yet, finding these cemeteries on the way to Poland’s happiest village seemed ironic and fitting at the same time. Dana missed all the fun, but then again, I don’t think she realized this might be the high point of our adventure. 

We might have been on the high ground, because for the next few minutes we continued to drive in this low-level area that I swore was more of a flood plain, or a potential one. I even imagined the river overflowing and then feeding and nourishing these fields to produce the corn that would make even Kansas proud. 
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